


Council of Ricks: Riq IV

by Hoodoo



Series: The Bar at the End of the Universe [4]
Category: Rick and Morty
Genre: Angst, Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Mildy Unhappy Ending, Self-Discovery, Slut Shaming, Spanking, collaring
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-27
Updated: 2017-12-01
Packaged: 2019-02-07 09:46:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 3,810
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12838578
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hoodoo/pseuds/Hoodoo
Summary: Most Ricks were dickish, but this one buries the needle on that gauge. How much can you take?





	1. Chapter 1

You never knew what to expect, really, when you brought a Rick home. And this Rick—a Councilman, no less!—was more a mystery than most. 

Garden variety Ricks: No problem. Most of them wanted a conventional, hard lay. You’d go down on them, maybe they’d go down on you, then hard-core fucking in a couple of positions and he gets off even if you don’t. Occasionally one would spend a little more time fingering you or eating you out; maybe he’d even vary the pace of the fucking and encourage you to orgasm before he’d blow his load. A few times you’d even gotten lucky enough to bring home a Rick who would—if he came before you did—continue to fuck you until he lost his erection, or use his hands or mouth to make sure you got the opportunity to climax.

Some Ricks wanted a little more variety. You’d been fucked in the ass, once asked to wear turquoise body paint and a head band with short three antenna on it, occasionally made to be sluttily subservient and beg for his cock, and of course that rare-as-a-unicorn night you’d laid the five from the SEAL team. There was even the Rick with the bowl cut, but you denied yourself thinking about him much—

“This place is a fucking dump,” announced the Rick—excuse you, _Riq_ ; he’d made it haughtily clear the emphasis was a hard “Q”—in the ornate white robe, looking contemptuously around at your small flat.

With all his intellect he couldn’t figure out that a bartender’s salary didn’t add up to squat? 

You wonder exactly what he wants. You’ve never met a Rick with such a high political standing from the Citadel before. He’s probably used to swooning bootlickers, flowing champagne, and gold-plated everything. 

You liked Ricks. As selfish as they could be, there was something about them that drew you in like a magnet. Their cavalier attitude? Their swaggering, conceited air? Maybe it was just that they looked down on everything, and you were nothing, but they noticed you. Maybe you liked that for fleeting, split-second moments, _you_ were the focus of their attention.

It didn’t matter the reason. You picked up and hooked up with Ricks, and this Rick— _Riq_ —was expecting you to put out tonight.

“I w-would have expected bet-better,” he sniffed. Despite his seemingly exalted social class, his speech was afflicted like so many other Ricks. “There are ru-rumors of you in the Citadel. Whisp-whisperings that reach even as high into the ears of the Council. I would have thought, thought that you would have latched onto a Rick and done better for yourself. Gotten yourself a sug-sugar daddy. A sugar Rick.”

You don’t know quite how to respond to that.

Riq snickered at his own perceived wit. 

“Maybe you think _I’ll_ be your ticket to a life of luxury?” he continued. “M-m-maybe you’ve been opening your legs for all those other shitty R-Ricks because you knew eventually, _eventually¸_ I’d want to see what all the fuss-what all the excitement was about? Hmm? Hoping to, hoping to entice me, lure me to this shithole? So I could t-t-take you away?”

His concubine? Is that what he thought you wanted?

He sneered in your face. “I would not deign to even _consider_ keeping you, slut.” 

You’d been called slut before. You’d been called slut by other Ricks during provocative wordplay before sex, or with their cocks in your pussy or deep in your mouth. But that was in the heat of the moment, akin to praising, not just standing in your bedroom. Not just to demean you. Not just to be an asshole.

Rage overrode trying to decide what he wanted. With Riq’s face still frozen in a scowl of disdain, you hauled back and slapped him solidly across the face. 

Riq’s expression morphed from scowl to shock. His cheek turned bright cherry red from the force you had used, and from the burning on your own face, you knew you were about the same color. 

Your anger was fading, replaced by surprise and alarm at your own reflexive action. You had the audacity to slap a Rick! You slapped Riq!

You were so dead.


	2. Chapter 2

“I . . . I . . .” 

This wasn’t typical stumbling over words. Riq honestly couldn’t form a sentence.

His trembling, gloved fingers touched his stinging cheek. His disbelief rolled off him in waves.

You were trembling too, but didn’t even try to speak. You didn’t trust your voice.

“I-I’m . . . ah . . . miss—“

Your continued silence seemed to cow him.

He finally managed to put a word and sentence together. “Mis-mistress. I’m sorry. _I’m sorry, Mistress!”_

Your first ‘session’ with Riq IV, Spokesperson for the Council of Ricks, was hodge-podge and rushed. With little experience being a dom to a person who so sorely needed to be a sub, you improvised.

You made him strip, bend over the foot of your bed, and spanked him with the only object you could come up with on such a short notice: a plastic, slightly flexible ruler you found in the junk drawer of your kitchen. You also gagged him with the first thing that came to mind: your panties. 

He seemed to love it all.

The red lingering on his face was mirrored in the red welts on his ass. The noises he made were muffled, but you could still tell they were of enjoyment.

You didn’t touch his cock, but when you thought he’d had enough—the cheeks of his ass were on _fire_ —and gently brushed your cool hand over the marks you’d created, Riq jerked and cried out more sharply. That was a movement and sound you were intimately familiar with: He orgasmed. 

It surprised you. The spanking had to have been painful, and he came with your caress? 

“Th-thank you, Mistress!” he gasped earnestly, as he slid to his knees onto the floor.

You made him clean up the mess he’d made on your duvet; it seemed appropriate.

Riq did everything you asked meekly, eagerly, and continued to call you Mistress every time he addressed you.

When it was time for him to go, he timidly, with his eyes averted, asked when he could see you again. Still a bit bewildered by the events of the evening, you told him truthfully you didn’t know. It was odd to see a Rick so crestfallen. He mumbled something.

“What did you say?” you asked.

He glanced back up at you, then away again as if he’d done something out of line.

“Thank you, Mistress. I said I-I-I will be patient.”

You touched his cheek, hand grazing his beard. In a way that could only be described as reverently, Riq kissed your palm, then left without meeting your gaze again.

You didn’t have sex with him. You didn’t get off. You barely even undressed. But maybe this was something you could get into . . .


	3. Chapter 3

You’d gotten used to Riq occasionally coming around. It wasn’t frequent. There was no time table or designated pattern. He would show up at the Bar and you would take him home. Or not, depending on if another Rick had caught your eye or if you just weren’t in the mood. When you didn’t take him with you it made him even more needy and eager, so sometimes you left him behind just to stoke his fires.

The power he yielded to you was heady.

Since the first encounter—where you’d been surprised and unprepared—through trial and error you’d honed your techniques and tailored it more to what he wanted. On-line, you researched and read a few forums, and integrated some of those ideas into his visits. You worked at being domineering and how to sound patronizing, even if it felt a little off to you.

You tried ropes; they didn’t elicit the same response as a leather body harness and cuffs. You wanted to try a riding crop, borrowed from an associate with a stable, but the smell of horse was a complete turn off. Riq preferred the plastic ruler you’d first used on him or—and this made him beg unseemingly, he loved it so much—your own hand. He called you Mistress and answered every time you spoke to him. You cycled through names for him until settling on Pet.

He didn’t seem to care what you wore, so long as your attitude was superior, but occasionally you put on a pair of black leather boots and made him kiss them. It was your own private joke, twisting the idea of all the people bootlicking him in the Citadel.

There had been sessions when he’d been ordered to kneel on the floor in front of you, eyes cast down, while you watched TV and generally ignored him.

There’d been sessions when you trussed him and teased him with feather-light touches, daring him to beg for a thrashing. 

There were times you would command him not to come until you gave permission, _then_ you’d spank him. A spanking never failed to arouse him, and sometimes, if you pushed him almost to the point of breaking skin, he alternated begging for more and begging to get off. The very best times for him were when it went on so long he was exhausted and weak and barely able to hold himself upright, his cock hard and leaking from pent up stimulation, and as a final, comforting release, you jerked him off. 

Sometimes, however, he did climax before you said it was fine for him to do so, and sometimes you thought he did it on purpose to test you. 

Riq knew the punishment for disobeying could be a smack across the face. Occasionally you made him prostrate himself while you put a booted foot on the back of his neck to remind him his place. The most severe punishment—for deliberate transgressions, like daring to call you slut again—included you taking his portal gun, opening a portal, and shoving him through, no matter the state of undress he may happen to be in. 

He only forced you to do that once, especially since you kept his portal gun, and he had to make his way back to the Bar and beg for its return.

Overall, though, he was a good pet.

Tonight you had a special treat for him. He’d been waiting so patiently, eyes on the carpet, no “accidental” movement—sometimes he couldn’t help rubbing a hand over his cock, erect or not, earning himself handcuffs latched behind his back. But tonight he’d been obedient, and the small bells you’d attached to his wrists to alert you to any motion while you were out of the room were quiet.

You left him in the middle of your living room floor while you walked to your bedroom. You stripped and put on a simple black bra and panties. He didn’t care what you wore, but you felt more formidable in them, like wearing armor.

You walked back in to the room and stood in front of him. “Pet.”

He didn’t glance up. He was being very good.

“Yes, Mistress?”

“You look very nice tonight. Your harness is polished, the straps aren’t pinching or too loose . . . you’ve done well.”

“Th-thank you, Mistress.”

You make a show of walking around him, critically looking him over, even if he could only see your feet. You stop in front of him again. 

“But . . .” you sigh, letting the work hang over him.

Riq squirms, just a minute amount. He’s worried. He struggles not to look up to determine what the problem might be; you can tell.

You prompt him, “But it’s missing something, Mistress.”

Relief colors the words he repeats. “But it’s missing something, Mistress.”

“Oh?” you ask, like you weren’t orchestrating this exchange. “And do you think you’ve been a good enough pet to deserve something new?”

“Yes, M-mistress!” Riq replies, as if he had a choice.

“So eager,” you coo, and stroke the side of his face. 

Automatically he turns his head into your caress and attempts to kiss your palm.

“Such a good boy! You may look up and see what I have for you.”

He lifts his gaze cautiously, like your permission may be a trick. You pat his cheek.

It took you some time to find this. Searching through countless leather shops, on-line . . . so many you found were similar, but the one you’d previously held was etched into your memory. Even so, this was a gamble—you don’t know if Riq will recognize it or even if it was part of his past.

When he sees the collar resting in your hand, his breath catches in his throat and his eyes widen, and you know now that despite his standing in the Citadel today, Riq IV had been a member of the Flesh Curtains in his youth, in whatever dimension. 

“Mis-mistress . . .” he whispers in a choked voice. You can’t determine what emotion he may be feeling.

“Lift your chin,” you order.

Even if he isn’t pleased, he obeys.

With some fumbling, you buckle it around his neck, then step back to admire it.


	4. Chapter 4

The sight of Riq on his knees, thin frame bound in leather straps and collared, waiting for your next instruction, is suddenly, unexpectedly, intoxicating. You’re abruptly breathless and flustered, a hot ember of arousal in the pit of your stomach, although you do your best to hide it.

“Do you like-does this please you, Mistress?” Riq asks.

His question seems innocent, but he’s a Rick, after all, which means he’s observant and calculating. You should reprimand him for asking a question—it’s presumptuous—but can’t seem to channel the cold harshness it deserves.

“Yes, Pet,” you reply.

A smile crosses his face. “It pleases m-m-me to please you, Mistress.”

Proper words. He is being _extraordinarily_ good tonight.

When he’s here, in your flat, you decide what will happen. But you’ve already lost a bit of control by dressing him in the collar and being so taken by it, and more drifted away by allowing him to speak before spoken to.

You touch his cheek again, and again, habitually, he presses his lips to your palm.

That ember in your gut flares, and a question comes out of your mouth before you can stop yourself.

“Pet, what would you like tonight?”

Riq’s eyes flick to yours, even as his mouth stays against your hand. More command of this situation—of him, of your authority over him—is seeping away, like water in cupped hands. You’re going to have to grab those reins tightly if you don’t want to lose it all—

“I’d-I’d like to fuck you,” he answers, then adds, “Mistress,” almost as an afterthought.

You have to bite the inside of your cheek to prevent a gasp. You’ve never been that intimate with him. You’ve never allowed it. He wasn’t the most pleasant of Ricks when you first brought him home, but the shaping of him that you’ve done, the sculpting that he wanted, that he needed . . . he’s acquiesced to being a different type of Rick entirely, one that you could possibly see yourself spending real time with—

He wants to fuck you. That smoldering fire in your belly makes you realize you want to fuck him too. Not Riq IV, Speaker for the Council of Ricks. But Riq, the trained pet who waits on you and obeys your word. Two entirely different personas—if you allow this, what would happen next? How would the two of you go on? This is the razor’s edge on a slippery slope.

Mutely, he waits for your answer.

Moment of truth. Yes or no. Yes . . . or . . . no. Yes, or—

“No,” you snap.

Your rebuff is meant to cancel your previous loosening of who’s in charge, here. The denial not only keeps him in his place, but arouses him too; you can see the bulge forming in the thin satin briefs you like him to wear with his harness. 

Riq pushes into your hand, trying to draw your attention back to him, and you flick him sharply on the chin.

He gasps and drops his eyes again.

You’re panting. You don’t even try to hide it; you only hope he thinks it’s because you’re angry and not because you’re still fighting arousal.

“That’s . . . what you said—it's _insolent!”_ you reprimand him, but it’s weak. 

You don’t typically falter over words, and there’s a peculiar feeling in the room now, like a crack in a window letting cold air in. Something is broken.

“Yes, Mistress,” Riq agrees, quietly.

You stand in front of him a moment more, then suddenly can’t stand the sight of him. You stomp off back to your bedroom. You don’t give him any orders. You collapse onto your bed, and hate the fact that your nose is stuffing up in preparation for the sob you hold your breath to contain. 

Angrily—angry at him, angrier at yourself—you unfasten your bra. It pinched anyway. You rip off your panties— _not like he would have, don’t think that, you’re just taking them off because thongs are fucking uncomfortable_ —and throw them as hard as you can. They hit the wall, but without a satisfying sound on impact. You find pyjama pants and an old t-shirt and put them on. The thin material of the shirt soaks up your tears when they fall off your jaw.

You collapse on the bed again and sit hunched over, watching tears dripping into your lap.

There are no sounds from the bells in your living room.

A mishmash of conflicting thoughts roll through your head, each clipping the heels of the one before it. He did what you asked! He answered your question! Was it true? Did he want to fuck you? Or, like a dutiful pet, was he just telling you what you wanted to hear? You should walk back out there and slap him. Or walk back out there and stand, literally stand, on his back until he sobs, to show him who’s boss. Or maybe walk back out there and demanding he apologize—for what, exactly? You don’t know, but you can make him say _something_ —and then make him cater to you the rest of the night. Or . . . walk back out there and kiss him. Or walk back out there and do what he asked for, what you, undeniably, want; allow him to fuck you, you revel in it. 

Sex with Ricks was a compulsion that you don't want to be cured of . . . but deep down, you know with this Rick it wouldn’t work out. And with a single action motivated by what you wanted, by dressing him in a collar you wanted to see again, you’ve shattered what you two had. That’s not what he wanted, and now you’re useless to him.

Much more slowly, it dawns on you how one-sided this relationship has been. 

Time passes, but you can’t even guess how much. You’re getting sore from the tension sitting in this bent position; it must be torture for the man kneeling motionless a room away.

Angrily you wipe your face and yell, _“Goddamn it!”_ suddenly.

That startled Riq. The bells on his wrists ring.

“M-mistress?” he calls quietly.

You feel hollow. You say, “Get dressed, Riq,” but your voice doesn’t carry the same weight of power as before. 

There’s a hesitation, then the bells jingle and ping haphazardly. You can imagine him getting to his feet, working the pins-and-needles out of his legs, then he’s shuffling towards your bedroom. The bells are dampened; he removes his cuffs as he walks.

If he’s surprised to see you dressed like a hobo, teary-faced, and miserable on the bed, he hides it well. Silently he works the buckles of his harness and drops it unceremoniously on the floor in a heap, then tosses the belled cuffs on top of it. Finding his robe, he slips into it then stands imposingly in front of you, a distorted parody of the meek position he’d been in before.

“This-this isn’t . . . g-going to work,” you choke out.

Riq snorts. “No _shit._ What the-what the actual fuck? I thought we had a good thing going here.”

You glare up at him. You’re not going to lay yourself bare for Riq IV. He’s so smart, he can figure it out that the relationship between the two of you was based on his desires, not something mutual.

He narrows his eyes and watches you. You bite the inside of your lip again and try to out-wait him, try to match his callous bearing, but snot starts running from your nose. Crossly you wipe it away.

Finally, his unfriendly façade flags a little. 

You can’t tell if he’s relaxing deliberately or to manipulate you into something. New tears form in your eyes, however. Whatever.

You wipe them away too as you tell him, “I’m sorry I bought you that collar. I thought it would be fun, but seeing it on you . . . I got a little more . . . turned on than I thought . . .”

Riq touches his neck, and you realize he hadn’t removed the collar, it’s just covered by his normal wear. That knowledge certainly doesn’t help. If you could have just kept control of your own response to him, this little thing you two had could have continued—

“You couldn’t help it. I’m the sexiest fucking thing around.”

You sniffle with a bit of laughter thrown in. “Don’t I know it.” You look up at him sadly. “I just can’t keep doing this. It’s not what I want, and now I've ruined it. I’m sorry, Riq.”

“You fucking s-should be,” he agrees, but it’s not as malicious as it could be. “Guess you’re gonna have to, have to go back sniffing for Ricks at that shitty bar.”

“You think I was exclusive with you while you were being my foot stool and begging to be spanked?” you retort, but match the mildness in his tone.

He chuckles.

A silence settles into the room. Tears keep forming in your eyes but you’ve given up wiping them away. You’ve never known a Rick to stand so quietly for so long. He doesn’t apologize or sit next to you or do anything remotely comforting for you. You have no clue what may be going through his head.

Ultimately, he gives up waiting for anything more from you, mutters a “good bye” or possibly “good luck” in more a perfunctory way than anything else, then opens a portal and steps through.

You feel drained, useless, and incompetent. You’ve been around enough Ricks! You should be able to emulate their egocentric mindset! Like him, you shouldn’t get caught up in what might be and just wallow in the here and now—

Leaving the place a mess, leaving all the lights on, you crawl under your blankets and weep.

_fin._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you were wondering, there is a sequel to this story, and it includes artwork! https://archiveofourown.org/works/12912858/chapters/29501937
> 
>  
> 
> As always, thank you for reading!


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